Lonely Days In Burbank

At the age of eighteen I was the perfect combo of naive, egotistical, ignorant and with just enough fearlessness that I thought I could move to which would greet me with open arms. It made perfect sense to me. I was the funniest in my Second City High School Improv class and I had just been a runner up in the Funniest Teen In Chicago competition put on by the local public radio station. It didn’t matter I bombed at the final showcase where I sped through my act like an auctioneer on meth while the only sounds to be heard were of chatter from the waitstaff as glasses clinked and the register banged open. Afterwards I told myself that the crowd wasn’t ready for my edgy Lenny Bruce-esque insights and F bombs while the other teen contestants talked about the dating and their driver’s license photos.  

I moved to LA with my high school Improv buddy and winner of the Funniest Teen In Chicago Hal Sparks. Hal had a few things I didn't have for a life in Hollywood: A job in TV hosting a kid’s game show, an agent, a car, actual confidence, and a dad with money so he didn’t have to have a job.

 I had $3000 and knew absolutely no one. 

Hal’s dad co-signed for an apartment and we moved into a nice two bedroom place with a pool near Pass avenue and the 134 in Burbank. Hal quickly got busy going on auditions, having meetings and hitting the open mics. I didn’t join Hal at the open mics because I was “reworking my act.” Though the idea of performing put a pit in my gut the size armored truck was leaking hot oil. When Hal was home we’d work on a screenplay which was the same concept as Chevy Chase’s Fletch, but with two Fletches (Hal and me). I’m sure if I read this script today it’d cause me to repeatedly cringe that by the end I’d have permanent crease marks on my face. 

I spent my days wandering around my neighborhood as the sounds of the 134 scored my existential nausea as I blew my dough at nearby diners, the Crown Books or on cassette tapes until my savings ran out and I had to find a job. Due to my lack of marketable skills and not having a car I landed a job at a small shop a few blocks from my apartment called Flipper's Frozen Yogurt. 

I didn’t mind the job. The owners were a nice married couple and the customers were friendly, many of whom were celebrities on their way to the studios. Steve Perry of Journey came in once. My co-worker became so excited she began to shake and squeal so fervently that I thought she was having an orgasm. Ken Berry, Katy Segal, and Khyrsten Haje were regulars. Ken Berry was a thrill for me because as a kid I watched “F Troop” reruns daily. Katy Segall would park in disabled spot, saunter in as if she was on a Versace runway, order her yogurt and would sashay away without paying. I wouldn’t have minded if she tipped, but she didn’t. I naively mistook Khyrsten Haje’s friendliness as flirting. Everytime she came in I debated with myself if I should ask her out. Not that I had any money for a proper date. But hey, why wouldn’t a young beautiful star of “Head of the Class” making  twenty-grand an episode not want to date the minimum wage yogurt worker who overestimated his charm?

One afternoon as I had time to lean and didn’t clean, a middle-aged man shuffled in as if he was half asleep and made his way to the counter. “Hello,” he said in a voice and presence that was reminiscent of Droopy the Dog. “Did you replace Jonathon? Jonathan was my favorite so you have some big shoes to fill.” He rested his elbow on the counter and plopped his chin into the palm of his hand as he continued. “I’m Larry. I get the same thing everyday, a medium strawberry with almonds on top, so if you see me coming you can start making it and I’ll always leave a nice tip.” 

I gave Larry his yogurt and he shuffled to a nearby table. He took a bite and shuffled back to the counter. “I didn’t catch your name,” he asked. I told him my name and he repeated it to himself as if to lock it into his memory. “Where’d you come from Matt?” I gave him the brief summary of my arrival and my pursuits to be an actor, writer and comedian. His face lit up, “That’s a lot of ambition packed into that statement. I like it.” Larry paused and proudly proclaimed, “I’m a writer and an actor too. Have you ever seen the “Courtship of Eddie’s Father?” Larry continued on without my response, “I played Bill Bixby’s boss.” 

I told Larry that I often watched the show in reruns as a kid. Larry lit up as he proceeded to tell me what a wonderful person Bill Bixby was and how much he loved the boy who played Eddie on the show. Larry abruptly stopped speaking and he became forlorn as he fiddled with the paper wrapper from a straw. “I’m a homosexual, Matt,” he sighed, “Does that bother you?”

I was surprised by the sudden shift in topic, but I told Larry that I didn’t care. “Good,” he said as he perked up, “I just wanted to be upfront with that. A lot of people hate homosexuals and friendships have ended once they find out I’m gay. I’d rather you know now than down the road and hurt my feelings.” Larry reached out his hand and I shook his very soft hand. “We are now friends,” he said with a smile. 

Larry came in almost everyday and when I saw him approaching the shop I’d start making his medium strawberry yogurt with almonds. He’d smile as I put it on the counter when he walked through the door and he’d plop a dollar into the tip jar. Larry would hover around the counter and we’d talk about old movies, theater, Chicago, our painful childhoods and failed love. His attempts at love, not mine. My only understanding about relationships and love I had copped from movies and stories about John and Yoko. Nevertheless, I had plenty to say on the subject. 

On occasion Larry would point out an elderly person in the shop and inform me who they were.  “That’s Edith Head,” he whispered, “She designed the costumes for Roman Holiday and All About Eve.” One time Larry nodded towards an old man with a cap sitting in the corner, “That’s Billy Wilder.”  I was stunned that such an iconic LA figure was sitting alone in the corner of a Burbank yogurt shop. 

I stood there staring at Billy Wilder astounded that a true Hollywood legend was in my midst. Larry broke my gaze on Billy Wilder by breaking the silence by asking “Do you like pie, Matt?” He paused but long enough for me to respond but  continued before I could, “Would you like to get pie with me tonight? I’d like to buy you some pie.” I agreed and Larry said, “We’ll meet at the Copper Penny tonight at six.”

The Copper Penny was the perfect diner. It was an old joint and most of the waitresses appeared as if they had been there since the day it opened. It served mostly eggs, burgers, grilled cheese and your mug of coffee was refilled before it ever got close to half empty. It needs to be noted that I once saw Jack Lemmon at the Copper Penny happily enjoying a cup of coffee. I know this isn’t pertinent to the story. Nevertheless, I saw motherfucking Jack Lemmon smiling as if the cup held all the secrets to eternal happiness. Also not pertinent to the story: Watching Eddie Money in a red Puma sweatsuit arguing with his wife over a can of Campbell’s soup at the Vons, and seeing Vince Neil driving down the Sunset Strip in a Lamborgini with a porn star in the passenger seat. In all fairness I’m not sure if she was a porn star, but I’m fairly certain she wasn’t his accountant or mother. 

NOTE: Accountants can look like pornstars and pornstars can be accountants. This is not a judgment. It’s just  an assumption based on what is in public about Vince Neil’s dating habits. 

“I want you to order whatever you like, Matt,” Larry said as he perused the menu, "Don't worry about it. Eat and then we can enjoy some pie.” I was starving. Most of my diet at this time consisted of boxed mac ‘n’ cheese mixed with canned tuna for protein or Bisquick pancakes sans the syrup. I was so poor, syrup was a luxury item. I’d choke down the pancakes and hurry to drink water to flush them down my gullet. After this time in my life it took almost a decade for me to be able to enjoy pancakes again. 

Not wanting to break Larry I ordered a grilled cheese with a side of fries. As we ate Larry he informed me that soon he would be going out of town to perform his one man show as Mark Twain which he toured around the country at old folks homes. He patted his mouth with a paper napkin and said, “It’s not Shakespeare, but it keeps the lights on.” 

Larry sat upright, breaking out of his usual slouching demeanor and placed a book the size of the bible on the table. “Okay,” he said as he rested his hand on the book like he was about to take an oath. “I brought you something very special to me. This is my life story told through poetry. I would be flattered if you read it.”

Larry handed the book to me and as I opened it  he snapped, “Don’t flip through it here. I don’t want you to get french fry grease on the pages.” Larry giggled. “Read it in the safety of your home with clean hands.” 

After Larry and I parted for the evening I went home and began reading his book which was about his struggles of being a homosexual and finding a place to belong. Though I wasn’t gay I related to his being an outsider as a teen who was beaten by bullies and having a disconnected relationship with his father. As I lay in my bed reading my phone rang. It was Larry who was sobbing. “It was horrible Matt. Horrible. They punched me and threw me to the ground. I think they were going  to kill me, but somehow I managed to escape. Some people just hate homosexuals. That hate us.” 

I did my best to console Larry. When he had calmed down I joked that to make him feel better I’d put extra almonds on his yogurt tomorrow. He laughed and thanked me for being there for him. When we hung up I realized how lonely Larry must be that in a time of crisis the only person he could call was the kid who worked at the yogurt shop. 

The next day Larry limped into the yogurt shop wearing a pair of sunglasses to hide the ripe shiner on his right eye. As he tried to hold back from crying he said, “they threw me to the pavement, Matt. My knees are a mess.” The pain in Larry’s voice was heavy from a lifetime of pain. 

As I prepared his yogurt I said, “I’m putting on the extra almonds as I promised. You better say when,” as I poured a cartoonish amount of almonds on top. Larry laughed. “Thank you for talking to me last night,” he said, followed by a deep sigh. “I felt so alone.”

As the holidays approached my Mom offered me a roundtrip ticket to Chicago so I could come home. I leapt at the opportunity to get out of LA, see my friends in Chicago and raid my mom’s abundantly stocked fridge. . I hopped a train to Chicago so I could hit the Second City Christmas party. It was comforting to be around so many familiar faces and in a place I truly loved. When people asked me how LA was going my stomach would clench up and my mouth would go dry. I’d give vague answers and try to make it sound as if things were beginning to happen, but it was probably obvious I was floundering in Hollywood. When I had a chat with Second City producer Cherly Sloane she saw right through my bullshit and didn’t mince words, “You’re not ready for LA. Stay in Chicago. We’ll get you back on the staff and into classes. LA will be there when you’re ready. You. Are. Not. Ready.”

This was exactly what I needed to hear and was relieved to stay in Chicago. I called Hal and told him I wasn’t returning. This meant I abandoned all of my belongings in LA which was probably a dick thing to do to Hal, but I was a know-nothing-kid who was lost in every aspect of my life. I needed to be in classes, doing shows in the back of bars with sticky floors where the audience were people there to drink not see bad comedy. I needed to pay my dues.

I quickly lost touch with Hal which didn’t bother me too much, but I was sad I never spoke to Larry again. Over the years I’d wonder about Larry and what became of him. I’d searched for him on the internet, but I found next to nothing. He wrote a couple of B movies about hunky young men in prison. I could almost hear him saying, “It’s not Shakespeare, but it keeps the lights on.” Oddly, nowhere online is there any mention of him as a cast member of the “Courtship of Eddie’s Father.” Perhaps it’s an error by IMDB. If it was a lie, it’s a peculiar fabrication. I don’t begrudge Larry for it. LA is a strange place that pummels one’s self-esteem and can feed your insecurity and neediness. I know, because I returned to LA fifteen years later and spent two decades banging around that city fighting to keep my sanity. 

While living in LA I’d sometimes find myself in my old Burbank neighborhood. I’d pull into the strip mall where Flipper’s once lived in hopes I’d find Larry lazily shuffling around. Alas, I never did. I didn’t see it as a young man but as I looked back on my time in Burbank  Larry and were two lonely souls lost  in the vastness of LA who found some comfort in one another’s company. 

Even when I returned to LA  there with more life experience and had an abundant amount of friends I could feel isolated and alone. Often when I lived there I would think of Larry and hope that one day I’d bump into him. I never did. It’s too bad. I'd have bought him some pie.